


Bedtime Stories

by Whispering_Sumire



Series: [it's so fluffy i'm gonna die] Mixtape: A-Sides [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (as a prelude to), (in a manner of speaking), (more passive than active), (sort of), -Ish, Accidental Courting, Alpha Laura Hale, Attempt at Humor, BAMF Stiles, Babysitting, Baking, Bedrooms, Beds, Bedtime Stories, Canon-Typical Violence, Chef Stiles Stilinski, Common Cold, Dating, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Family, Feels, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gift Giving, Good Alan Deaton, Heartfelt Conversations, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Kissing, Lawyer Peter Hale, Love, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Massage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pack, Peter Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Prank Wars, Puppy Piles, Scenting, Schmoop, Sharing Clothes, Sickfic, Sleep, Sleepiness, Slice of Life, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Hale Pack, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic, fountain pens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25244050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: "It's — growing pains. This is me getting stronger. I have evidence. I won a spar. The score is 60-1 or something but Iwonone. So. There.""... I suppose some congratulations are in order?" Peter says, half-mocking drawl.Stiles flips him off. Makes pathetic noises when all of his muscles protest at once.A fingertip grazes his and —"Wow,"Stiles breathes, dazed, as his pain begins drifting away on a cotton candy cloud of childish-shiver ecstasy. "Don't stop. Do not ever stop.""That's quite a request. And quite a unique position to be requesting it from."Stiles lifts his head up - with miraculous ease - and glares at the middle-finger currently cosying up to Peter's black-veined pointer. He feels dangerously close to pouting. He doesn't want to lose the werewolf-mojo, but Peter is kind of right.Peter heaves a sigh before Stiles can come up with something probably stupid and says, "Would you like a massage, Stiles?"[And maybe this is where their love story started, or maybe it started with breaking and entering and a few pranks, or maybe it started when they first locked eyes on one another. However it started — here's how it goes.]
Relationships: Alan Deaton/Laura Hale, Cora Hale & Isaac Lahey & Gabriel Hale, Cora Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Gabriel Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski, Laura Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski
Series: [it's so fluffy i'm gonna die] Mixtape: A-Sides [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828798
Comments: 120
Kudos: 1268





	1. Training

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/gifts).



> @Twisted_Mind, I am _so_ sorry this took so long T^T, thank you for being so patient and I really, really hope you like it!!!
> 
> Dear Readers, I hope this finds you in good health, stay safe out there, may this offer you a few moments of (enjoyable) escape, and I love all of you; many, many soulhugs, xoxoxo, 🌺🌺🌺
> 
>  **Content Warnings :** In the Teen Wolf sandbox there are monsters and deadly things which are thought/talked about. Peter likes to seem more dangerous and scary than he actually is. And Stiles is seventeen when they begin their relationship; kissing happens but nothing else, so I'm not going to mark it as underage.
> 
>  **Trigger Warning :** paper-cut level of violence-ish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **psssst :** there's a button at the top that says "Hide Creator's Style" ; if you don't like the way the italics &c. look, click it ;)
> 
> love ya!!!!

Scott got Bitten by a rogue Alpha when they were both sixteen.

Stiles, who had been looking into the Hales on the suspicion that they were secretly an underground mafia family, had been surprised to discover that they were, in fact, werewolves. Oh, and also, oops, Beacon Hills is basically a real-life honest-to-god Hellmouth.

_Hooray._

With the help of Deaton and the Hales, Scott and Stiles had spent a few frantic weeks tracking down the rogue Alpha that'd Turned Scott so that Deaton could use his magical Druidy powers to cast a ritual cure that would only work if it was performed before Scott's first full moon. They had managed to abduct the rogue werewolf in question without killing him, and without dying themselves, only by the skin of their teeth — but they had done it.

Scott had wanted to return to normalcy after that, which Stiles hadn't begrudged him. The whole affair had been ridiculous and scary as shit.

But unlike Scott, Stiles couldn't pretend that Beacon Hills wasn't a cesspool of supernatural activity now that he _knew._ His curiosity had cored him, he'd wanted to learn everything about everything, and — he'd wanted to help protect his town.

He wasn't a werewolf and he didn't want to be, but he still felt like he had a duty. To his town, to his dad, to this Pack that'd been devoting their lives to keeping Beacon Hills safe for generations.

The Hales had seemed understanding, if a little sad, to see how adamant Scott had been about retaining his humanity and keeping his distance from them. They'd also seemed fairly bewildered by Stiles baking them several apology cakes on his best friend's behalf. (What? They'd looked so _dejected._ He hadn't been able to help himself.) Their bewilderment had only increased when he'd shown up on their doorstep to help with the spectacular pixie invasion that'd hit Beacon Hills mere days after the rogue Alpha thing had been done.

They seem to have settled into the realization that they're stuck with him now, though, and, considering the fact that they're in danger almost constantly, Laura has decided to train him.

... Hooray?

* * *

"What," Peter asks, all aconite-purr, "is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Stiles answers immediately.

He's stretched out on the Hale's sofa: soles pressed sweet-ache into the plush flat of its left arm, elbows dangling crooked over its right, chin digging into a hand-knitted throw pillow.

Peter stands over him, judgemental and expectant.

Stiles makes a face in his direction.

Seconds pass.

A sharp stab of pain pulses through Stiles' body and he groans. Again.

Peter raises his eyebrows high and _evil,_ the bastard.

"Ugh." Stiles gives up and stuffs his face into the throw pillow. Every subsequent word is therefore greatly muffled: "It's not my fault, okay? Laura's a _hardass,_ but, like, all of the supernatural creatures trying to kill us on a regular basis are unquestionably worse? It's — growing pains. This is me getting stronger. I have evidence. I won a spar. The score is 60-1 or something but I _won_ one. So. There."

"... I suppose some congratulations are in order?" Peter says, half-mocking drawl.

Stiles flips him off. Makes pathetic noises when all of his muscles protest at once.

A fingertip grazes his and — "Wa-ha-ha-hooooowwwwww," Stiles breathes, dazed. His pain is drifting away on a cotton candy cloud of childish-shiver ecstasy: like the first time he saw an elephant, like watching trapeze dancers from his dad's shoulders when he was six, like going to a carnival. "Don't stop. Do not ever stop."

"That's quite a request," Peter sounds faintly amused. "And quite a unique position to be requesting it from."

Stiles lifts his head up - with miraculous ease - and glares at the middle-finger currently cosying up to Peter's black-veined pointer. He feels dangerously close to pouting. He doesn't want to lose the werewolf-mojo, but Peter is kind of right.

Peter heaves a sigh before Stiles can come up with something probably stupid and says, "Would you like a massage, Stiles?"

Stiles blinks up at him dumbly for a moment. Then demands, "Will you keep doing the thing?"

Peter's lips go soft, thin, and his eyes go summer rain, and Stiles suddenly wonders what he would look like if he ever smiled for real; it's an expression that's been wandering across his face a lot lately. Stiles'll figure out what it means eventually.

"Yes," Peter intones, "I will keep doing _the thing."_

Stiles grins, "Then, yes. Absolutely yes."

Stiles must, as a necessary evil, go without the werewolf-mojo for long enough for them to get situated. He groans his complaints all the way up the stairs, through the halls, and into Peter's vasty apartments.

When he's reposed shirtless on a towel on Peter's bed with Peter's oil-slick hands kneading his knotted muscles into gooey oblivion, he begins groaning for an entirely different reason.

Peter pauses at one point, murmurs, "Do you have any idea what you sound like right now?"

Stiles isn't paying attention. He feels higher than high; he feels transcendent. His blood is fizzing like champagne in his veins and _nothing hurts._ "Keep going," he prompts after Peter's hands have lingered still a second too long. "'S nice."

"... What's the magic word, baby?" Peter asks softly. Stiles assumes that his smirk and his teasing lilt must've gotten lost somewhere in the feel-good haze. He has entirely ceased to care.

"Please," Stiles says, confidently. Smiles to himself, "Pretty please with a cherry on top."

Peter chuckles, hushed and low. "Yes," he says, "that's it exactly. Good boy."

His hands resume their work. Stiles melts. The world spins and spins and _spins,_ but it's a faraway thing. Getting farther all the time. Stiles' groans dissolve into moaning hums as the black felt of his eyelids gets blacker, fuzzier.

 _"Once upon a time,"_ ripples almost as a dream across the deep silk lake of his half-conscious mind, _"when the world was little more than primordial slush, there lived a pair of twins. One so gold and bright that they..."_

* * *

Stiles wakes up in the guest bedroom that he likes best, clean of all oil, wearing a shirt that notably isn't his.

Him spending the night at the Hales' is no longer the strange and unusual occurrence it would've been a year ago, and Dad easily accepts Stiles' brief texted explanation with a reply about having been held up at work anyway. Stiles tosses him an: I love you, go be awesome, and a dire warning not to cheat on his diet — Stiles will _know._

He gets up and spends about fifteen minutes stretching, all that's left of the pain he'd been in yesterday a half-tender burn that's strangely pleasant. He needs to thank Peter somehow. A cake? A temporary moratorium on every nickname he knows Peter hates? Another fancy pen?

He takes a quick shower, changes into one of the extra pairs of pants he'd left here days ago, keeps the borrowed shirt, and heads down to the kitchen to make everyone breakfast.

He's always been an early riser but _man,_ in a house full of werewolves you'd think he was the most chipper, up-with-the-sun morning person on the face of the planet. They're all either textbook definition grumpy or a complete sleep-mussed zombie until they've been fed, like, three whole pots of coffee. Each.

He starts the coffee first-thing, knowing that the scents will lure the wolves into waking. Then it's the scones — because flour _everywhere._ Breakfast sandwiches are next: grilled cheese, bacon-lettuce-tomato, and toasted peanut butter with bananas. After that, it's a whole shitload of sausage, bacon, and eggs.

Predictably, Cora, Gabriel, and Isaac are the quickest to trundle down. 

(Isaac is interesting in that he got the Bite when he was _super_ young due to undisclosed circumstances. He has since been folded so hard into the twins' theme that the whole town commonly refers to them as The Triplets and seems to have forgotten that he was ever a Lahey in the first place. 

None of the Hales have bothered to correct this misconception — in fact, most of them actively _encourage_ it.)

The three of them grumble and natter at each other as they collectively face-plant at the table with grave annoyance at the sun for daring to call in a new day.

Stiles sets the first batch of scones and sandwiches in front of them before they can discover a reason to tear each other's hair out over something utterly nonsensical that only they would ever understand. 

He doesn't give _The Triplets_ any coffee.

Stiles had made the mistake of giving them coffee once. Never again.

Laura will come next, he knows, so he fills her favourite mug with café de olla and waits for her at the bottom of the stairs. She glides down the steps all slumberous grace and mumbles her incoherent thanks when he delivers her to the dining room with her drink.

By the time he's done cooking there's a fairly decent crowd going. By the time the food starts getting cold, the majority of the wolves are significantly more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than before, and only Peter, Derek, and Angus have yet to arrive.

Angus is the easiest: Stiles tip-toes into his room, shoves a piece of ice down his collar, and runs away cackling.

"STILES!" Angus shrieks, his racoon-y little face hurtling angrily out of his doorway.

Stiles tosses him a cheeky grin as he slips upstairs and away into Peter's apartments, revelling in Angus' growls of impotent fury. 

Peter is a very private and vengeful man. Only those with express permission are allowed to enter inside his inner sanctum. (In Stiles' head, those last two words are accompanied by fog, ominous music, and melodramatic gasps of shock and awe.) Apparently, if anybody enters _without_ that express permission, Bad Things will happen to them.

Stiles, out of sheer curiosity and an ever-present inability to leave things alone, had broken into Peter's apartments on practically his first day. 

Shortly thereafter, Stiles' bedroom walls had been repainted a truly garish shade of pink — a colour they remain to this day both because Stiles is lazy and because the face that Scott had made when he'd first seen them had left Stiles laughing for _days._

Then half of his clothes had been replaced with _better_ clothes, which Stiles hadn't minded at all. Like, he's poor, he thrifts, he wears what's comfortable unless it's merch from comic books, games, shows, etcetera that he actually enjoys. All of his merch had been left untouched and the upgraded shit had been pretty comfortable in its own right so he'd shrugged and accepted the gifts for what they were: gifts.

He'd baked Peter a honey cake from one of his babcia's old cookbooks as thanks because Peter is one of those freaks who doesn't actually like sweets and his babcia's honey cakes are one of the least sweet cakes Stiles knows how to make. 

He'd broken into Peter's apartments, again, to give it to him.

"Thanks for the clothes," he'd said. "Even though you gave them to me in the _creepiest_ way possible. It was nice... ish. And we're not even friends or anything. Or Pack, since Scott's being an asshole and I'm, you know. Anyway." He'd shrugged and placed the cake delicately on Peter's heirloom writing desk with a lame flourish, "Here."

Peter had stared at the cake. "You are," he had said after a long pause, "the strangest creature I have ever encountered."

Stiles had, without hesitation, decided to take that as a compliment. He'd grinned.

About four days later a boa constrictor had ended up in Roscoe's backseat. She'd been whiter than bone and deadly-looking and he'd named her Małgorzata. He'd had to build his own enclosure and do a shit-ton of research but it'd been worth it, in the end. 

Gośka is the _awesomest_ and no one can convince him otherwise.

It'd taken him two weeks to come up with his thank you gift: an antique limited edition fountain pen and ink set from some famous pen company and a very, very old dip pen that may or may not have once belonged to a King. (He's pretty sure the grandmother that he'd bartered with for them had been a _dragon?_ Maybe? ... It should be fine.)

When he'd waltzed into Peter's study Peter had said, _"Stiles,"_ with a level of aggrieved exasperation that Stiles had felt was completely unnecessary, "have you still not learned your lesson?"

Stiles had ignored him and skipped around his desk with a breathless thrill in his blood. "Open it," he'd said, waggling the black leather pen box in front of Peter's face. "Open it, open it, open it."

Peter had taken the box from him with a narrow glare. Stiles had vibrated in place. Peter had attended the box warily and, at last, opened it. He'd gone completely and utterly still.

"Do you like them? I mean, my fountain pen based knowledge is virtually nil, but you gave me a whole-ass _snake._ And she's gorgeous and I love her and—. I don't like being indebted to people, but this is different. This is _Gośka._ She is above and beyond anything that I—"

"Stiles," Peter had said, considerably warmer. His fingers had been caressing the pens' complex barrels, his gaze had been riveted. "Most people," he'd murmured, "get me books. What on earth inspired you to get me — _these."_

Stiles had blinked. "Dude," he'd said, and Peter hadn't growled, which was surprising. "You literally have a framed 18th-century pen ad," he'd pointed at one of the scant portions of wall not donning a bookshelf, "right there."

Peter had followed the line of his finger before regarding Stiles with slight-smiling bemusement, "I also have a van der Helst; why not get me a painting?"

Stiles had rolled his eyes. "You carry upwards of ten fancy pens on you at all times, you refuse to write with anything as 'tawdry' as a ballpoint (you snob), and you're _always_ writing. You write _letters,_ Peter, and you journal, and I've _looked_ at some of your books. Your handwriting's on practically every single page."

"You've looked at my books," Peter had said with a helpless laugh. "Of course you have. Oh, you clever boy, what else have you noticed?"

Stiles had ticked his jaw and decided, "You like them."

Peter had grinned almost gleefully, leaning back in his armchair as if it were a throne, "A horrendous understatement," he'd said. "But yes, I like them. I take it you — _liked_ — the snake?"

"I would die for her," Stiles had said solemnly. "But for the love of my wallet, would you please stop getting me stuff?"

Peter had stood and Beta-shifted all in one, liquid motion. He'd lifted a single claw until its tip was whispering death at Stiles' throat.

"It wasn't meant to be a gift," Peter had said quietly, his wolven eyes like moonlight spilling through dragonfly wings.

Peter, Stiles had thought, from the moment they'd met, is a lonely man who doesn't need to be lonely. 

He'd leaned in, kiss-close, too fast for Peter to keep himself from nicking Stiles' skin: a long, thin line of blood. The air between them had been thick and damp and sweet. "That isn't up to you," Stiles had said in a hushed rasp.

He'd promptly turned and walked away.

"Stiles," Peter had called when he was at the door. "I'm glad. That the snake was to your liking."

Stiles had ducked his head to hide his smile and continued on without turning back.

He'd found a key lying atop a note on his computer one day later: I feel I ought to thank you for those pens. —PH The script had been lovely enough to weep over.

Stiles has been allowed in Peter's apartments ever since.

He respectfully uses that privilege to play keep-away from angry half-asleep werewolves on a bi-weekly basis. Peter hasn't stopped him or been otherwise vexed in his direction about it yet, so he figures it's okay.

Stiles quickly creeps from drawing room to mini-hall to den, finding Peter asleep in his bed. He's lying on his belly, pillows tossed about as if in a whirlwind, blankets a mess all around him, his arms and legs either trying to achieve some form of unconscious yoga or gain their own independence. His bed head is _glorious._

Stiles takes out his phone and opens its camera.

"What," Peter grumbles, voice ribbed velvet and thunder, coming from the absolute depths of his sleep-sanded lungs, "do you think you are doing?"

Stiles' heart flutters.

Heart, Stiles orders sternly, stop that.

"Nothing," he lies, hiding his phone behind his back.

Peter hums, sits up, and with every appearance of a man who has battled Morpheus and lost, makes a come hither motion. A very bleary come hither motion. If hands could slur, man...

Stiles pads forward trepidatiously.

Peter blinks slowly, heavy-lidded. "Mmm," he says, and snatches out a hand faster than Stiles could ever react, pulling him in by his shirt.

Stiles makes a stunned noise of protest. Peter pins him down flat on his back in the middle of the bed, his arms held fast above his head and his phone mysteriously missing.

"Oh, come on," Stiles complains. "You're literally perfect all of the goddamn time. It's not fair. I just wanted to—" he stumbles to a halt when Peter presses his nose into the crook of Stiles' shoulder like he's half-hypnotized and starts sniffing. "... Peter?"

"You're wearing my shirt," Peter says, his register earthquake-low. Stiles shivers despite himself. Peter inhales very, very deeply, mouth hovering open just above Stiles' pulse-point.

"Yeah." Stiles swallows, checks the grip around his wrists, and easily extracts a hand to comb gentle fingers through Peter's unkempt hair. "Kind of your fault, dude."

"You could have changed," Peter tells him, lips brushing against his skin. Peter's body is heavy, straddled above his. Oddly comforting, even as a rich, feverish heat begins to throb at every point of contact. That deep, animal part of him that might scream _jump_ at the edge of a cliff is writhing in the hollow of his hips, begging him to just—

"Peter," Stiles says, somewhere between desperate and warning.

"Yes, baby?" Peter urges on a drawn-out exhale, nosing up Stiles' throat until they're facing each other, bare inches apart. It would take so, so very little for Stiles to rock up against him, to tilt his head and initiate a kiss, to do anything, _everything._

"Want to help me go wake up Derek?" Stiles asks instead, airy.

Peter's lips go soft, thin, and his eyes go summer rain, and Stiles suddenly wonders what he would look like if he ever smiled for real — that stupid expression that Stiles still can't decipher. "Perhaps," he murmurs. "If you ask nicely."

"Help me wake up Derek... please?"

As it turns out, Peter's real smile is heart-stopping. World-shattering. Some _I'll never be the same again,_ divine providence type shit.

"Good boy," Peter says, like a fucking sunrise.

Stiles' chest billows with an emotion so striking and visceral that for a blindsided second he's almost terrified — or angry, because that is how he tends to react to things that terrify him.

He breathes through it.

"Well, then: up an' at 'em," he says, firmly, once his soul has regained its equilibrium.

And they get up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter: *paints Stiles' walls a garish shade of pink*  
> Stiles: *lmfao/shrugs* cool  
> Peter: *throws half Stiles' clothes into a fire and replaces them*  
> Stiles: hey, thanks man *proceeds to bake Peter a cake*  
> Peter: *leaves boa in jeep*  
> Stiles: i _love her_ *proceeds to give Peter fancy pens*  
> Peter: ...  
> Peter: ...  
> Peter: ... *begrudging heart eyes*


	2. In Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning :** Stiles has a cold, he coughs and sneezes and blows his nose. Also, a few low-grade nightmares are fairly casually discussed. Proceed with caution.

Ever since the night that Peter gave him that massage, Laura's training has been significantly less painful — not like she's going easy on him (she would never), but like she's being more attentive to his body's limits and their pre-training regiment.

Stiles has some suspicions about this, he does, but it's genuinely difficult to buy into them for more than a minute at a time.

No way Peter went to bat for him with his Alpha over _growing pains._ Right? That's just wishful thinking.

Stiles is gonna go ahead and chalk it up to personal growth on Laura's part; it's the only theory that doesn't give him a headache.

"What's wrong with you?" Peter asks from somewhere above him. He's not going to take the cold compress off of his eyes to check.

"Wow," Stiles says, "deja-vu." At which point his lungs decide to advance their little rebellion by trying to climb right the fuck out of his body. "Ow," he husks when the coughing fit is over.

Suddenly a hand, wondrously cool, lands softly on his throat, another sweeping delicately through his hair. "Stiles?" there's a note of real alarm in Peter's voice that's so wildly out of character that Stiles hastens to reply: "Just a cold, my dude. Always hits me hard in March; no need to worry, I'll be fine in a few days."

A short pause ensues in which Stiles silently enjoys the darling-sweet ecstasy werewolf-mojo provides. "I must confess that I know very little about the common cold."

Stiles sighs a grin, "Fucking _werewolves."_

"Quite," Peter says, sounding vaguely amused.

"You're in my room," Stiles realizes eventually.

"You were absent from school," Peter says, playing with Stiles' hair. Stiles isn't about to stop him, it feels amazing. "The Triplets texted me, they were worried."

Stiles spares a fragmented thought to wonder why on earth they would be. "Silly pups," he says without really meaning to.

"Sometimes," Peter agrees. "But perhaps not this time."

Stiles hums and relaxes into a meditative state that floats gently above sleep, his body gone dark and tingly and distant. It's mostly pleasant, and a whole hell of a lot better than he was feeling two minutes ago.

He definitely owes Peter another fancy pen.

Peter, who he notices has gone very still.

"You okay?" Stiles asks.

Peter tugs lightly on a strand of his hair, "That isn't a question you should be asking me in the state that _you're_ in."

"... can ask whatever I want," Stiles mutters, petulant.

Peter buries his fingers further in Stiles' curls. "You kept it."

"Hmm?"

"The boa constrictor."

"Małgorzata," Stiles says happily.

"Małgorzata," Peter repeats, tone implacable. His pronunciation is perfect. Stiles' heart does an excited little skitter that makes his lungs go wild. Peter's hands remain a steady anchor, yielding to Stiles' body's demands but never leaving him.

As soon as Stiles catches his breath he says, "Mieczysław."

"You should rest, Stiles," Peter murmurs, sounding strangely strained.

"No — I mean, I know, just." Stiles' throat has officially teamed up with his lungs in their revolutionary endeavours, and the amount of frustration he feels at not being able to say all that he needs to say as quickly as he needs to say it is _enormous._ He swats at his nightstand. "There's a—. Water."

"I've got it, darling," Peter says, and a straw is set against his lips in moments. "Drink slowly."

Stiles drinks slowly; he pulls away with a sigh when he's done, head flopping back onto his pillow. He's going to have to blow his nose soon. That is going to be a singularly embarrassing experience. "Peter," he says, almost dizzy with urgency, "I really want you to say my name."

"Stiles?"

"No. My real—. Peter." He doesn't know why he needs this so badly, but it's like a physical ache. A slow burn blooms behind his eyes. "Mieczysław," he says again, "Please. _Please."_

"Mieczysław." Peter's voice is firm and unwavering; he leans in close to press his forehead against Stiles' temple, hands once more curled around his throat and playing with his hair, "Hush, Mieczysław. Rest now, baby, rest for me."

Relieved, Stiles rests.

 _"Once upon a time,"_ he hears, as if from a great distance, _"when the world was little more than primordial slush..."_

* * *

When Stiles wakes up his attention is immediately caught by Peter, who is sitting in Stiles' cheap-ass, duct-taped to hell and back desk chair, writing in one of Stiles' many legal pads and using his laptop to — "Are you seriously researching _the common cold_ right now?"

Peter caps his fancy pen and sets his notes aside to attend him, "It has come to my attention that my knowledge regarding human illnesses is _offensively_ lacking."

"Offensively," Stiles repeats, dubious.

"Yes," Peter says gravely as he begins — well, there's really no other way to put it. He's _fussing._

Stiles would not have pegged him as the type. Ever. It's kind of adorable.

"You know I've been dealing with my feeble human constitution since I was born, right?" he asks, half teasing, half defending his fellow fragile meat-sacks.

"Feeble," Peter mutters, rearranging him and checking his temperature. "Unstable. You add _one_ unhappy bacteria into the cocktail..."

"Alright," Stiles decides, after thoroughly blowing his nose - it had to happen eventually -, "No more computer for you."

"Excuse me?"

"WebMD is freakin' you out," Stiles says frankly, "so I'm grounding you. You're grounded."

Peter narrows his eyes at him, "I hardly think you could stop me."

"Not _indefinitely,"_ Stiles concedes with a roll of his eyes. "But while you're here, at least." A thought strikes him: "How'd you get into my computer in the first place?"

Peter smirks as he takes Stiles' water cup to refill, "Your password was surprisingly easy to guess."

His password is Polish for Little Red Riding Hood.

Which, he realizes, Peter had all the clues for, given what he is and what happened between them earlier. Stiles' blood warms with some vague embarrassment; _what the hell, sick brain? Begging him to say my name? Really?_

"Are you hungry?" Peter asks when he's at the door.

"No," Stiles answers honestly. "But I should probably eat something anyway."

Peter agrees, tells him to shout if he needs anything, and leaves to presumably make him food and etcetera. Stiles utilizes the temporary privacy to change his password, turn off his computer, and hide the legal pad Peter'd been writing in for good measure. He opens a window and sprays some Febreeze, too, because a) sick-smell is gross, and b) werewolves. If Peter decides to go hunting for that legal pad Stiles isn't about to make it easy on him.

His lungs riot and his nose attempts to drown him and he's pretty sure he's sneezed an upwards of seven times, but he's back in bed by the time Peter returns, fully prepared to sleep for eternity.

Peter — brings him porridge. And a fresh cold compress, a bowl of ice chips, a cup of chilled water...

"For someone who's never dealt with this before, you're doin' pretty good," Stiles says approvingly.

"Well," Peter intones, setting everything up for him. "You _do_ well, you _are_ good."

"Were you in English professor in your past life? Because I'm starting to get that vibe."

Peter sits beside him on the bed and tugs on a lock of his hair, "Eat your food, Mieczysław."

Stiles' heart swoons like some Victorian damsel and his blood rushes hot and heavy in his veins. He eats his damn food — or as much of it as he can, anyway.

Peter doesn't return to the laptop or ask after the legal pad, which is somehow, for reasons beyond Stiles' own comprehension, super fucking endearing.

"Your walls are dreadful," Peter notes at length.

Stiles slants a look at said walls. They are... extremely pink. And not a nice pink. "Pretty sure that's on you, dude."

"Yes," Peter drawls, "but that was months ago. I would have expected you to repaint them by now."

"Eh," Stiles shrugs. "It grows on you."

"Like a fungus, I'd imagine."

Stiles grins at him. Peter, unexpectedly, pinches his cheek.

"Brat."

"Asshole," Stiles retorts, mostly fond, as he rubs the abused cheek. "So, what, are you just gonna hang out with me until I get better?"

Peter heaves a sigh full of melodramatic gravitas, "I'm afraid I can't. I have a meeting with a client in an hour, and I've no doubt your father will be home soon."

"He will," Stiles agrees.

Peter smiles, tender and delicate and heartachingly beautiful. "But I will come by to check on you."

Stiles starts internally cursing him out, because that is what one does when they are flustered beyond all reason. "Thanks," he rasps faintly.

 _Motherfucking perfect bitch-ass fucker,_ he thinks, in tandem.

* * *

The Triplets visit Stiles with Peter on Saturday, the third day of his impromptu convalescence. He's still on a steady diet of cough drops and liquids, but, hey, he's practically back to normal.

"School's boring without you," Cora says, flouncing onto the end of his bed.

"And Scott's more annoying than usual," Gabriel says, taking up Stiles' shitty desk chair.

Isaac makes a short noise in the back of his throat, "I like Scott."

"You have a _crush_ on Scott," Cora corrects him, blasé.

"Like you can talk, with whatever you've got going with Reyes."

"What I've got going with Reyes is be-a-u-ti-ful, brother, so you can just fuck _right_ off."

"Children," Peter and Stiles say in synch.

Gabriel and Cora start snickering and Isaac grumbles under his breath about _his_ crush not being the most tease-worthy one in this room.

They spend an hour or so chatting over a game of poker: Peter deals and keeps a running commentary on all of their trivial highschool dramas; Cora talks of wooing Erica; Gabriel talks of his strange yet highly entertaining aromantic trysts with the Queen and King of Beacon Hills High (read: Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore); Isaac updates Stiles on his absentminded and absentee best friend; The Triplets descend into cooing over Małgorzata when Stiles brings her out to explore for a minute.

"Where'd you get her?" Gabriel wonders, face aglow with delight.

"Uh," Stiles says, flicking a look over to Peter. Peter raises his eyebrows, giving him the floor. "Fate," Stiles decides on a whim. Peter's lips press together against a smile and his eyes sparkle.

"Fate?" Isaac asks, half-mocking, "Like the God?"

"Sure."

"You're a weird guy," Cora says, reaching over to give him a noogie - "Hey! Not fair — squishy human, here. Currently getting over a cold. ghrrk—" -, "But that's why we love you."

"Aw," Stiles sings, "you _love_ me."

"Of course we do, you idiot," Gabriel says. "Now fold so I can have your pocketknife."

"Fuck you. I have a good hand, I'm not folding."

"You're not supposed to _tell_ me you have a good hand."

Gabriel does, in the end, get Stiles' pocketknife. It was a nice one, too, sharp as shit with an elephant-shaped handle. 

Ah, c'est la vie.

* * *

"We met at a birthday party," Stiles says, when he's got a pair of twos and the pot has devolved into origami-folded paper and off-handed promises. "I mean, I knew about him before, because his mom was my mom's nurse — but we _met_ at a birthday party. Jackson was being an asshole to him and I punched Jackson in the nose over it and that somehow translated into us becoming best friends forever."

Isaac, who had been the one to ask after his and Scott's origins, huffs ruefully, "Why am I not surprised."

"I hate birthday parties," Gabriel says, betting on the turn.

"Really?" Stiles wonders. "But normally they're, you know, _fun."_

"It's because of that stupid recurring dream of yours, isn't it?" Isaac says distractedly, handing his cards over to Cora, their current dealer. "I fold."

"Not a dream. A _nightmare."_

"Yeah," Cora laughs. "A cheesy B flick nightmare where the birthday cake comes to life and eats you."

Gabriel flashes his eyes at her. She grins a mouthful of fangs.

"Now, now," Peter says, calling Gabriel's bet. "In the world that we live in, any fear can be a legitimate fear. Best not make fun."

Cora raises an eyebrow at him, "Do you _know_ of a thing that can make birthday cakes eat you?"

Peter's face blossoms into acutely punchable faux-innocence, "I haven't the slightest idea."

Gabriel shivers, Cora and Isaac roll their eyes.

Stiles' lungs take a moment to be extremely rowdy, but thankfully not as riotous as they had been yesterday. Peter's there with water and werewolf-mojo the second his coughing subsides, his palm an odd pressure against Stiles' adam's apple as he swallows.

(The Triplets share a round of significant glances amongst each other in the background, but maintain their silence.)

"Call," Stiles rasps, chucking a new cough drop into his mouth and smiling his thanks at Peter before adding to the pot.

Peter stays as close as the cards will allow, brows pinching and mouth continually finding itself in a downward curve; _honestly,_ he's too worried for his own good. Stiles holds his cards carefully so that he can lean his head on Peter's shoulder, all drowsy reassurance.

"Don't fall asleep," Isaac says. "You'll feed into Gekko's ego if you keep letting him win."

"Don't call me that," Gabriel chides, rote.

"I used to have this dream," Stiles tells them while Cora presents the river (oh, hey, another two), "that I was ice-skating and — you know how fucking clumsy I am, so of course I'd trip and fall. Usually, I'd startle awake, still thinking that I'm falling until I realize that it was just a dream, I'm still in bed, everything's a-okay. But sometimes, the fall wouldn't wake me, and I'd just be — trapped. Under the ice."

"That," Cora says, staring at her brother as she wags a finger in Stiles' direction. _"That_ actually has the potential to be scary. Your nightmare people should call his nightmare people and schedule a meeting."

Stiles laughs, interrupting whatever Gabriel's no doubt pissy-sarcastic reply would've been. "It wasn't a nightmare, though," he says. Amends: "I mean, maybe the first one was, but the second one... It's hard to explain. I'd be in the water under the ice, but it wasn't really water, it was more... _stillness._ And through the ice I could see this, just, _gorgeous_ fucking sky. The kind of sky you can only ever _see_ in dreams."

"Honestly?" Cora returns, "I think my point still stands."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Gabriel grieves, in high spirits despite his annoyance.

Stiles narrows his eyes and whispers out of the side of his mouth, "He's got another winning fucking hand, doesn't he?"

 _"He_ certainly seems to think so," Peter says, and it might've sounded any variation of ominous or grave if he weren't currently amusing himself playing with Stiles' hair.

Gabriel bets Stiles' pocketknife because he's a smug bastard. 

Stiles sticks his tongue out at him. 

Gabriel smirks.

Stiles mutters inane curses under his breath.

Peter calls with thirteen expertly folded paper cranes (Peter's reasoning behind these being viable to bet: _"If a thousand can make a wish or bring about good fortune, then surely a handful or two hold **some** value?")_ and Stiles does the same with some of Dad's junk-food stash.

"Any more bets?" Cora asks. She receives a resounding negative. "Alright, bitches, show me your cards."

They do: Stiles, three-of-a-kind, Gabriel, two pair, and Peter - "Oh my God, you have _got_ to be shitting me." - a royal goddamn flush.

Isaac cackles, gleeful that Gabriel's finally lost a game. 

Stiles steals the cards from Cora and, shuffling them, says, "Let's play something else."

"Bored of poker, heartling?" Peter asks.

"No, just tired of my shitty luck," Stiles laughs, somewhat at himself.

"Hm," Peter says, snowy eyes twinkling.

"Euchre," Isaac suggests, "Gekko's actually bad at that."

Gabriel growls and tackles Isaac to the ground; a short bout of wrestling ensues that the rest predominantly ignore until Gabriel knocks Isaac into Cora, and then all _three_ of them are wrestling.

Stiles sighs fondly at them and lays his head in Peter's lap, finding himself exhausted now that there's nothing left to distract him from it. Peter's fingers weave into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

"Are you tired, baby?"

Stiles hums, sinking already into that deep silk ponderous lake of slumber.

There is a story being spoken, hush-sweet, above him; the words spill over his body like a fountain of wine-soaked flowerpetals. He dreams of a pair of twins, one like the day and the other like the night. He dreams of ice. He dreams of a sky far too wonderous to be real.

(When Noah Stilinski goes to check on his son after he comes home from work, he finds a messier-than-usual room with five bodies sprawled out all across its floor. His son is curled up fast asleep under a blanket and a snake, head in Peter Hale's lap; Cora's slouched against the curve of Stiles' stomach, playing Go Fish with Isaac and her uncle; Gabriel's wrapped around Stiles' legs, using his hip as a pillow, and snoring like a gentle motor or an aggressively loud cat.

Noah stares. Peter, Cora, and Isaac stare back.

"You know what?" Noah says, "I don't wanna know."

And he closes the door.

Well, he thinks, chuckling to himself, at least his kid's got people looking out for him.)

* * *

### 2.5: The Letter

My Dearest Stiles,  
While you were sleeping our lovely triplets  
decided that Małgorzata had to  
be terribly lonely, and so they brought  
her out to be with you. I took the liberty  
of giving her back to her enclosure  
before we left; I hope you'll forgive our  
imprudence.

By now you must have come across your betted  
pocketknife, which has been left behind.  
This was my intended action, I assure you.  
I have no wish to deprive you of your  
human claws, and no reason to keep this  
item for myself. You seemed unhappy  
to lose it, and I was more than happy  
to deliver it back into your possession.

Your fever looks to have calmed down while we  
were visiting, and your cough has become  
almost negligible. If your cold has  
gone by the morrow then you were correct  
in your 'give it a few days', assessment.  
I must confess to some small worry that  
you wouldn't be, but it is true that it's  
your body and you have been living with  
it now for 17+ years. 

However, I do not like to see you sick.  
It leaves me ill at ease to know that a  
simple, unseen thing could hurt you without  
my notice, and denying me any  
capacity to defend you. Nevertheless,  
you are human and glad to be and  
I happen to like you as you are, so  
I suppose I shall just have to endeavour  
to equip myself with the best knowledge  
available and move forward that way— —  
note: I'm borrowing that legal pad  
I was using yesterday; though you hid  
it exceptionally well, darling.

It is my truest wish that you are reading  
this in ridiculously good health,  
all my regards,  


PH

| 

My Dearest Stiles,  
While you were sleeping our lovely triplets  
decided that Małgorzata had to  
be terribly lonely, and so they brought  
her out to be with you. I took the liberty  
of giving her back to her enclosure  
before we left; I hope you'll forgive our  
imprudence.

By now you must have come across your betted  
pocketknife, which has been left behind.  
This was my intended action, I assure you.  
I have no wish to deprive you of your  
human claws, and no reason to keep this  
item for myself. You seemed unhappy  
to lose it, and I was more than happy  
to deliver it back into your possession.

Your fever looks to have calmed down while we  
were visiting, and your cough has become  
almost negligible. If your cold has  
gone by the morrow then you were correct  
in your 'give it a few days', assessment.  
I must confess to some small worry that  
you wouldn't be, but it is true that it's  
your body and you have been living with  
it now for 17+ years. 

However, I do not like to see you sick.  
It leaves me ill at ease to know that a  
simple, unseen thing could hurt you without  
my notice, and denying me any  
capacity to defend you. Nevertheless,  
you are human and glad to be and  
I happen to like you as you are, so  
I suppose I shall just have to endeavour  
to equip myself with the best knowledge  
available and move forward that way--  
note: I'm borrowing that legal pad  
I was using yesterday; though you hid  
it exceptionally well, darling.

It is my truest wish that you are reading  
this in ridiculously good health,  
all my regards,  


PH  
  
---|---  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stiles: *presses the letter into his chest and squeals into his pillow*
> 
> ps: don't think too about who had what hand and how and whether or not the deck was shuffled that well, etcetera, just go with it, lol
> 
> pps: _soulhugs_


	3. Mountain Ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning :** There is a Big Bad, and it tries to be the star of the show. It fails, of course. Amongst the background characters, and in the background, there is a temporary but fairly nasty breakup. Some Hardcore Introspection.

Stiles learns that he's magic because there's some new Big Bad on the loose and Deaton _tells_ him.

"Be the Spark," he says.

"You're already a Druid!" Stiles exclaims, "Why can't _you_ be the Spark!"

"A Druid is not a Spark, and my power could not maintain a good enough barrier: even if I tried to encircle this creature with mountain ash, I would fail. I have reason to believe that you — would not."

"Oh, yeah, dude?" Stiles starts, three shades shy of deriding, "the fuck's your _reason?"_

Deaton simply smiles, the patient saintly smile of one who has grown accustomed to the ways of children and has ceased minding them. Stiles wants to feel patronized, but he's seen Deaton smile like this while a) a foreign Pack was all but spitting on him, b) they were dealing with a bunch of homicidal gnomes, and c) he was babysitting _all_ of the Hale children. Stiles has developed a healthy sense of respect for this particular smile.

"Close your eyes," Deaton tells him.

Stiles scowls heartily. Deaton is unmoved. Stiles grits out a thousand and more curses in his direction, and closes his goddamn eyes.

There is an annoying stretch of nothing happening and _should I just punch him in the face?_ silence.

"Now: where is Laura?"

"I don't fucking—"

"Humour me, Stiles."

Stiles inhales deeply through his nose and restrains all of his violent urges. Is it a matter of guessing? Sensing? Both? _More?_

... He feels so incredibly stupid right now.

His ankle is itchy; he's wearing the wrong fucking socks for this. And they're, like, this really nasty yolk-yellow colour. Why does he even have them in the—

Stiles ducks and rolls on sheer instinct. "Laura!" he cries, because no way was he keeping his eyes closed if they were under attack, and, hey, would you look at that: their lovely, esteemed Alpha is _right there._ He gives Deaton an offended look and gestures fervently at the farcity of it all.

"And how did you know she was there?" Deaton asks leadingly, eyebrows raised. Laura's wearing a similar expression, hands on her hips.

"Uh, I dunno? Maybe the air pressure changed or something?"

Laura rolls her eyes, "Alright," she says, heaving him up from his crouched, defensive position. "How-about... where's Uncle Peter?"

"With that creepy vampire dick in that creepy supernatural boutique on 5th — but I know _that_ because we've been texting. Not because I'm _magic."_

Laura stares at him implacably for a moment, then says, "Give me your phone."

"What?" Stiles squawks, alarmed. "No!"

"I'm the Alpha," she says.

"I'm the human," he returns, saucy.

She changes tack, "Okay; I will literally pay you three hundred dollars to see that conversation."

 _"Three—"_ Stiles chokes. 

He gives her his phone.

She gives him _three hundred fucking dollars._ Just like that. Out of pocket.

... He can totally get new socks with this. Also probably fix whatever's got Roscoe grumbling and whining and obstinately refusing to start on the occasional frigid Tuesday.

"Tell me, Stiles," Deaton says into his thoughts, "where are the triplets?"

Stiles answers thoughtlessly: "Gabriel's having his regular rendezvous with our high school elite, and..." Stiles blinks, his chest tightens and his breath shallows and his whole world shrinks down to a fine-tuned point. "Laura," he says, urgent, "I think Cora and Isaac are in trouble. We gotta go. Like, now, man, right the fuck now."

Laura immediately stops snickering over Stiles and Peter's snippy back-and-forth on the usefulness of "discount Lestat in snakeskin fuck me pumps" and leaps into action.

Deaton shoves a jar of mountain ash at him with words that are probably wise but that Stiles is too busy to hear right now.

He ends up, in the heat of the soon-thereafter ensuing battle, throwing said jar at the giant freaky-ass spider monster and hoping viciously that the thing would just go up in flames already. The glass shatters and the black grain darts toward the monster, morphing into an ink-sludge blaze along the way.

Whatever barrier plan Deaton had originally intended is bypassed completely: all that's left of their Big Bad when Stiles is done with it is a tarry crater.

"Holy fuck," Stiles breathes, all of his muscles pulsing with adrenaline and overuse, every inch of him covered in sweat and grime and what is most likely viscera.

Cora and Isaac groan in unison from their positions on the ground, floppy-limbed and indisposed.

Laura wipes the blood from her nose and mouth with her sleeve, pats him on the shoulder with a crooked grin, and says, "Hey, guess what? You're a wizard, Harry."

"Oh, my God, I hate you."

It is then that Peter arrives on the scene, looking harried and concerned until he sees that everyone is in working order and their Big Bad is dead. Very, very dead. The _most_ dead. He sighs and smooths his hair back into place with a casual hand, "I take it I missed the party?"

"Ugh," Stiles says, and goes to flop into Cora and Isaac's pile. They accept him with open arms and cocoon him in-between their bodies. Laura joins them with an easy, shrugging-nevermind sort of temper.

"You're all dreadfully dirty," Peter complains as he follows unhesitatingly after, contaminating his bespoke suit and his sleek-shine patent leather shoes, his perfect hair and expensive watch and probably-perfect everything else in their muck.

"Oh, shut up, you drama queen," Laura says, at the same time Isaac mumbles:

"You know you love it, don't even lie."

"I love all of _you,"_ Peter corrects gravely, very unsubtly feeling around for any unhealed (or human) injuries. "Our current predicament, however? Appalling."

 _"Appalling,"_ Stiles mocks in a high gentry tone that's liquid with laughter.

Peter tugs on a lock of his hair, and then employs the full wonderous force of his werewolf-mojo to great success, as Stiles can only sigh happily and melt away under its power. "Yes," Peter says, his voice gone delicate and sweet, "appalling."

"Uncle Peter," Cora says, sounding young, tired, "tell us a story?"

"Of course, sweetheart. — _Once upon a time, when the world was little more than primordial slush,"_ the familiar words lap and roll over their spirits like a babbling brook, wherein they are the stones and Peter's voice is the water, all hushabye, _"there lived a pair of twins. One so gold and bright they blinded everyone who came near, and the other so dark and void that they frightened everybody they saw...."_

* * *

Deaton calls Stiles into his clinic a few days later - and Laura with him - to ask how he would feel about becoming the Emissary's apprentice.

"I — what? For real?" Stiles asks, bemused. "But I'm not even Pack...?"

Laura makes a girlish face of profound mental anguish that might've looked funny at any other time, before groaning desolately into her palms. "He's an _idiot,_ Alan," she laments, "an _idiot."_

"Hey," Stiles protests.

She steels herself and approaches him, clasping both of his shoulders in a firm grip, "You have been Pack for months, Stiles."

He blinks at her, "I have?"

She shakes him a little, _"Yes._ I can't believe you didn't know. Didn't we make it clear enough?"

"Um," Stiles says, suddenly feeling sheepish. "No?"

"May the Gods have mercy on me," Laura sighs, lifting her eyes up to the heavens as if seeking consolation. She draws him into a tight, unwavering hug. "Well, you're Pack, okay? Even if you _are_ a dumbass. You're _our_ dumbass."

"I really don't know if I should be feeling ecstatic or annoyed, right now."

Laura musses his hair as she pulls away, "That's what family's for, kid."

Deaton clears his throat in an attempt to reclaim their attention. Laura smiles winningly at him as she slings an arm around Stiles' neck.

"It would please me immensely, Mr. Stilinski, if you would accept my offer of apprenticeship," Deaton says, all formal and uncharacteristically serious, "as I want so very badly to retire."

Laura coughs to hide, poorly, her startled laughter.

Stiles bites back a grin, "This mean you're gonna be my Yoda, Doc?"

Deaton, without missing a beat, dry as dust, says, "If it means I can finally hang up my hat, then yes, fine."

Laura flat-out guffaws.

And so, Stiles adds magic training with Deaton to his already pretty loaded timetable of high school, general survival, and self-defence with Laura.

("Laura," he says later, nudging her, voice trembling with excitement, "you're my _Alpha."_

 _And I,_ he thinks, joyed, _am going to be your Emissary someday._

"Yes," she returns importantly. "Which means that you should do everything I say."

Stiles snorts, "In your dreams, your highness."

Laura sighs wistfully, "My dreams must be so nice... everybody listening to me... no family drama... no flagrant insubordination...")

* * *

Jackson pulls a dick move: he breaks up with Lydia; this, in and of itself, is not the dick move. The dick move is in the _execution._

He's _soul crushingly_ mean about it. 

And then Gabriel has a freak out because he is _convinced_ that it's somehow his fault — something to do with an argument that broke out when Gabriel realized he'd missed Isaac and Cora needing help for, well, a hot and steamy threesome, basically.

So when Stiles overhears Jackson talking about all of this in a nasty undertone to Danny, he calls him out on it and gets unnecessarily heated.

In retaliation, Jackson puts itching powder in Stiles' lacrosse gear the next day. From there, it escalates into a full-on, no holds barred, mean-spirited prank war.

The last segments of which involve Jackson unleashing a handful of disrespectful rats inside Roscoe (all of whom are delivered unto Deaton's merciful care), and Stiles using mountain ash to seal Jackson's Porsche so that he can fill it with water and large, exotic fish via the open sunroof.

Deaton, of course, is very displeased with him using his awesome new magical powers for the sake of petty revenge, and gives him babysitting duty for a _month_ as punishment (not that taking care of Sadhbh can really be considered _punishment;_ she's high energy but she's also the sweetest, most adorable toddler Stiles knows).

Jackson, in the face of his ruined car (and a few other factors: namely, The Triplets, Lydia, Erica, Boyd, and Danny all being some variation of upset with him), has a long conversation with Lydia that involves him coming out as aromantic and owning up to all the bullshit he put her through. Their reconciliation soon allows him back into everyone else's good graces and now he, Gabriel, and Lydia have become this platonic, friends with benefits poly-trifecta of awesome that the whole high school adores and fears in equal measure.

They're so cool and badass that it almost hurts to look at them: like observing shiny level 100 Pokémon in their natural habitat or something.

Stiles is rocking with Sadhbh in the rocking chair in her nursery, ruminating on all this, when a thought invades: if he's being fair, some aspects of his prank war with Jackson reflect that whole thing he had going with Peter at the very start.

But no, he tells himself, the two situations are wildly different.

How, though? Beyond, like, the obvious, how were they different?

He isn't naïve, he knows that Peter's intent behind the bedroom wall painting and the clothes and the boa constrictor hadn't been kind. The first was meant to fuck with him — and possibly to take a jab at his masculinity, if Stiles was one of those people who bought into gendered colour (which he can proudly say that he isn't). The second was meant to... insult his fashion sense? Right? It only failed because Stiles had decided not to care that literally half of the clothes that he'd been used to and had bought for himself had just fucking _vanished._ The third was meant to scare him, obviously, and could've even hurt him if Gośka weren't the gentlest creature alive.

But Stiles had resolved from the outset to take it all with good-humour.

Why?

Well, he'd known he had it coming. But, then, he'd known that with Jackson, too, hadn't he? whatever the context had been.

So, why?

Because his goal hadn't been to frustrate or irritate or to antagonize — it had been to pop that bubble of lonely he'd noticed Peter had so perfectly and _needlessly_ encased himself in.

Stiles had wanted to — become a part of Peter's life. And to make Peter more a part of his family's life. 

Some part of him had seen a little bit of himself in Peter: himself after he'd lost his mom.

He'd seen that and he'd thought: _I can help him._

Has he helped him? A little, he thinks. Mostly, he's just realized that Peter loves and appreciates people in a subtler way than Stiles is used to. Peter enjoys solitude — and if he had been overindulging in that self-isolating facet of his character before Stiles had come along, Stiles knows, with a certainty that startles him, that he has bridged that gap.

Sadhbh makes a charming gurgling noise in her sleep and Stiles coos and shushes her, keeping the motion of the rocking chair steady and lulling.

There's a half-expected shift in his heart as he caresses her pretty little face, one that floods his eyes with salt-water, even though crying over it makes literally no sense whatsoever.

"Stiles?" Laura calls softly as she creeps in.

"Yeah," Stiles answers, just as soft, trying to keep the gush of emotion out of his tone. "Uh——how was date-night?"

"So _Gods_ glorious," she sighs on a tired smile as she leans down to collect her heels with a relieved groan. "He took me to The Rooklet, man. _The Rooklet."_

Stiles sniffles a quiet laugh, "Did you get a new chess set?"

"Hell yeah, I did," she says, coming to kiss her daughter's rich curls. "How was she?"

"Addicted to blowing bubbles," Stiles tells her. "We had a little moment earlier, because Nessa got a new toy and Sadhbh was jealous, but Nessa was such a champ: she said that if they played together they could share _all_ their toys, and then it would be fine. The rest was — _smooth sailing."_

"Uh-huh," Laura intones, knuckling at the damning river running down his cheek. "Wanna tell me why you're cryin'?"

Stiles shakes his head with a slight grin, "It's silly... I'm not — sad, or anything. I just think I'm maybe overwhelmed?"

"About what?" Laura wonders, easing Sadhbh from his arms to lay her in her crib. Sadhbh grumbles and shifts some, but, thankfully, doesn't wake. "Come on," she says, playful, "tell your Aunty Laura."

"Oh, man," Stiles huffs, scrubbing roughly at his face. "So. I'm in love with — someone. Which I sort of already knew? Like, in the back of my head? But it just—. It hit me. I mean, _really_ hit me — about five seconds before you walked through that door."

"I have the best timing, don't I?"

"Um... Not really?"

Laura snorts and slides down the wall to sit beside the rocking chair on the floor, setting her heels nearby her and rearranging her gown's skirt so that she can cross her legs more comfortably.

"Who is it?"

Stiles inhales deep; his breath gets caught in the bottom of his lungs and lingers there, aching. "Peter," he says.

"Thought so."

He stares down at her head. Moonlight is floating through the sheer white curtains and soaking her sleek raven curls, her peach-fuzz lily skin, in fey-ethereality. They're (practically) right next to each other and yet she seems so alien. Different than he knows her to be. Suddenly she isn't his friend, his Alpha, his almost-sister — she's Sadhbh's mom; Deaton's wife; Peter's niece.

"Seriously?" Stiles asks, letting his voice out into the novelty as if testing it, to see if it'll dissipate. It doesn't. It coats his tongue, instead, makes that one simple word fit the air it was born into.

"Mmhmm," she answers, utterly confident and carefree.

They are silent together for a minute or an hour or any small eternity; it isn't an unhappy silence, it just _is._ They are both thinking their own thoughts, or perhaps not thinking at all, and together they exist, awash in the dim-syrupy darkness and Sadhbh's small-bodied breathing.

Laura's words drift through eventually, like little larks leaping off their branches to stretch their wings under the stars: "Love is easy to fall into," she says, "but it's hard, it is _really_ hard to — nurture. There will be tremendous happiness and there will be tremendous hardship, and sometimes enduring all of it is going to seem impossible. Love - I promise you, I am being so serious right now - is a decision you have to make every single day. It's work, do you understand me?"

Stiles, unwilling to take or answer this shallowly, lives with it for a moment wrapped solidly around his heart. He doesn't speak until he's sure, "... Yes."

Laura looks up at him, irises all weeping willow leaves dripping into lakes intense, penetrating. "Talk to him, then. Even if it's awkward as shit. Even if it's heartbreaking. You have to talk to him, okay?"

Stiles swallows thickly. "Okay," he says.

Laura smiles warmly, raises her arms all the way up as she stands, palms pressed together and chin tilted up. A handful of deep breaths later she folds her body completely in half to touch her toes before doing a handstand that turns into a whole-ass backflip because she's flexible and _insane._

"Holy rainbow-glitter _shit,_ Laura."

She laughs at him and moves to cradle his face in her hands, raining kisses all over his cheeks, eyes, forehead, and nose. "Whenever you're ready, whenever you want to," she tells him, resting her forehead against his. "I'll be here, after. No matter how it goes, I'll be here."

"I know," Stiles murmurs, all faith. "Thank you."

"Now come on," she says, bright-faced and brimming with kindness, "Alan's waiting up for us and there's a pint of pistachio ice cream with your name on it."

Laura takes his hand to lead him forth.

And Stiles goes with her gladly.

* * *

Stiles, wanting to thank Peter for the massage, the caregiving while he was sick, and the pocketknife, decides to enlist Deaton's help.

(He's also, he knows, doing this with his love-revelation at the forefront of his mind. It's very likely that this is going to be sappy as shit. Stiles refuses to care.)

It takes longer than he'd like it to, because it's such finicky work and Stiles really has to learn the ins and outs of fountain pen creation in order to do it. 

A few times, when his mind is ADHD restless, or when that day, in particular, has it out for him, or when _nothing_ is going right, and he's frustrated to tears — he'll stand there, wanting to tear his hair out or scream or weep or all of the above; and then he'll remember what Laura had said to him.

Making fountain pens out of mountain ash and being in a relationship with somebody probably aren't anywhere close to similar, but it always smacks so sharply of analogy in those moments.

So, whenever thinking of Peter's reaction isn't enough, Stiles thinks of his own love for Peter, and how strong he wants it to be.

Not selfless, because that would be unhealthy, and definitely not _selfish._

But strong.

The pens require a special finish when they're done - one that gives them a fascinating gloss-glaze - so that werewolves will be able to handle them. The nibs are gold, engraved with a sun and a moon. One is as black as an empty void, the other is bleached bone-white.

Stiles marches into Peter's study and rolls them across the desk. He crouches down and folds his arms on the edge of the tabletop, watchful.

Peter opens his mouth to ask what they are, eyebrows already furrowed at Stiles' uncharacteristic silence when — he freezes.

"Mieczysław..." he breathes, picking the pens up, inspecting them. "Did you _make_ these?"

"Yeah," Stiles answers quietly. "I wanted to do something for you. To thank you. For — everything."

Stiles has never seen Peter blush before. The heat of it overcomes every inch of visible skin all at once. Jesus Christ, it's so _vivid._ He's red _all over._

Stiles' heart dances, breath quickens, mind goes hazy.

He did that.

He wants — to taste that.

Peter's eyes lift from the pens to him, delicate, summer rain. "Come here, baby."

Stiles straightens and approaches him.

Peter pulls Stiles into his lap as soon as he's close enough, gentle and slow so that Stiles can resist if he wants to. He doesn't want to. His blood simmers.

Peter trails his nose along the line of Stiles' jaw, down his throat, across his clavicle and back up. His lips graze Stiles' cheeks, brush too lightly and too fleetingly past his mouth, breathing him in as he runs his hands up and down Stiles' back, his arms, through his hair.

"Am I," Stiles asks pantingly, pressure building in his groin, "starting to smell like you, yet?"

"... A little more," Peter requests, deep-chested rumble.

"Hn——'kay," Stiles whispers, airy. He trembles as Peter continues his - _fuck_ \- incredibly thorough scenting. Peter's lips sweep over his eyelids, his pulse-point; he nuzzles into Stiles' neck, presses their cheeks together, noses at Stiles' hairline. Peter's hands slip under his shirt to splay wide around the span of his ribs, and he must be feeling acutely the way they heave around Stiles' frenzied lungs, the way Stiles is shivering with such _need._

"Peter," he breaks at last, the name a mewl in his throat.

"Yes, baby?" Peter wonders, tone resembling an avalanche.

"I really wanna kiss you."

The grin that unfolds across Peter's face is so transformative that Stiles has to marvel at it: curling and crinkling those summery eyes, hinting at teeth, dimples, puckish nature. He is — so much of everything. He's the whole goddamn world. The sun, the moon, the other half of Stiles' soul, probably.

"Please," Stiles says, half absent because he'd only _meant_ to think it, but his filter has apparently abandoned him along with his self-control. "Please, God, let me kiss you."

"Oh, I had no intention of stopping you," Peter purrs, honey-thick and warm.

So Stiles kisses him. The flower petals of their lips yield for each other and Stiles tastes uncountable universes on Peter's tongue. His body goes live-wire, sparking under every touch, electrified, exposed in the basest way.

Peter nips at his open mouth, hand moving to circle throat, softly, just to feel.

Stiles keens, reaching up and grasping Peter's wrist, for stability, for want, for Peter's pulse hammering heady against his fingertips.

Their lips are raw by the time they part.

A laugh tumbles up from Stiles' heart, giddy.

Peter devours the sound. Stiles' laughter gets moan-riddled, lush with intimacy.

"Peter," he sighs, after their kissing has chastened again. He clears his throat softly and attempts not to giggle. "So—. Alright. Um. Could I take you out to dinner sometime?"

Peter grinning like that is absolutely, no shit, going to kill him. "Are you asking me on a _date,_ baby?"

Stiles smacks his still-tingling lips, ticks his tongue, answers, vaguely strangled, "Uh... Yep."

"I think," Peter says, hooking a lock of Stiles' hair behind his ear and tenderly stroking his cheekbone with his thumb, "that would be lovely."

Stiles kisses him once more, because he can, before sliding out of his lap and trying to return himself to some semblance of order. Peter sinks back in his chair, crosses one leg over the other, and watches him with a faint smile. Stiles, helpless to resist, leans down - Peter tilting up to meet him - for another kiss. And another.

"Okay," he says, with reluctant finality. "I gotta—"

"Indeed?" Peter laughs, and Stiles bends to swallow the sweet music for his own.

"How do you taste like stars," Stiles mutters, making himself move to leave, however reluctant he may be.

"Mieczysław," Peter calls softly, and Stiles glances back a question. Peter smiles. "Thank you for the pens."

Stiles grins, somewhere between bashful and proud, and all but skips out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps: since there's a small reference to Harry Potter :: if you are transgender, you are beautiful and valid and i'm sure that the muse who landed on jk rowling's shoulder is wishing fervently that they had chosen a different perch -- xoxoxo, soulhugs to the end of the universe and back, keep being your awesome rainbow-glitter self <3 <3 <3
> 
> pps: [translifeline.org](https://translifeline.org/) (and if you have any other resources you'd like me to link, let me know)
> 
> 🌺


	4. First Date

Roscoe's at the shop until three in the afternoon, so Stiles is on foot for most of the day leading up to the date. He does a few errands for the Stilinski household and the animal clinic, checks in with his people around town, impulse-buys a cute dress for Sadhbh, and sees a flyer in Nora's Flower Nursery's window proudly advertising the sale that they've got going on.

He calls Laura.

She picks up after the fourth ring, distracted: "Hey, kid. What's up?"

"Any chance you know what Peter's favourite flower is?"

"Snowdrops," Laura answers immediately.

Stiles' face furrows, "Really?" He doesn't know why it's surprising, but it is.

"They're Persephone's flower," she says. Her tone becomes fluttery with excitement, "Gods above, are you going to get him a _bouquet?"_

"Shut up," Stiles answers as he pushes open the nursery's clear glass door.

"You _are,"_ Laura trills, and dissolves into indecipherable squealing.

"Alright, yes, yes, Christ——I love you, bye."

"I love you, too! I'll see you in a bit. Woah, Sadhbh, hey, where do you think you're going with that—"

Stiles hangs up and, smiling wider than he has any right to, addresses one of the florists working there, "Hi, um, do you guys have any snowdrops?"

* * *

Stiles arrives at the Hales' freshly showered and freshly dressed, with Roscoe in reliable working order and a bunch of artfully arranged snowdrops in hand (metaphorically — they're in a vase on a table at Donnie's Diner).

Peter, probably (justifiably) attempting to forestall any interfering on his family's part, is waiting for him on the porch swing. He rises and glides toward Stiles' jeep as soon as it's parked; Stiles leans across the passenger seat to admit him, his veins buzzing like a honey-laden hive full of excited bees.

"Hi," he says, half-giddy, after Peter's climbed in and pulled shut the creaky door.

"Hello, heartling," Peter replies, all kindness, that almost-smiling, stupid-soft look on his face. He's all terribly handsome high fashion, not a hair out of place on his head, the heavy scent of rich, verdant forests forever staining his skin.

"God, you're so perfect I want to punch you," Stiles breathes, because sometimes his brain and his mouth conspire against his common sense.

Peter's expression becomes almost smug, excepting his eyes, which crinkle in silent laughter, "Do aesthetically pleasing things often stir you toward violence?"

"No," Stiles says, and kisses him. He tastes as good as he looks: like the serpent come seductive into Eden.

"You know," Peter murmurs against his lips, "kissing can be a kind of violence," and he proceeds to bite, to deepen, and make Stiles whine as if to prove his point.

When they finally part, Stiles has to clear his throat several times before he can manage anything coherent. Peter looks pleased and triumphant about this. Stiles flips him off. Peter laughs, bright and open and lovely. Stiles suffers a begrudging smile.

"Asshole," he says, fondly.

"Brat," Peter returns with a winning smile.

Jesus _Christ,_ this man.

* * *

Stiles keeps their destination a secret, no matter how Peter teases and inquires, trying to suss it out.

His veins are still flush with honeybees - and he's sure his palms have never sweated so much before in his life - but his heart begins to calm as he and Peter talk. He really wants this to go well, but, somehow, even if it _doesn't_...

They'll figure it out, won't they? Together.

His confidence in that sentiment is so deep and intense that he's a little startled by it. A little proud of it, too.

"Look at that _smile,"_ Peter murmurs, as if awed, his fingertips brushing a dimple.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," Stiles says, ignoring the way all of his busy-bee blood swarms toward his cheeks, sure of the roses they'll find blooming there.

Peter's eyebrows raise, "Coming from me?"

"Have you _seen_ your smile? Staring at the sun would probably be less blinding."

Peter grins, wide and wicked, "Is that so?"

Stiles shoves Peter's face away from him with an eye roll and a disgruntled sound, "Yes," he says, "but not _that_ one. You have a — there's this look that you get sometimes, and then you smile, and — it's hard to explain."

Peter hums contemplatively, "Perhaps you shall just have to point it out to me sometime?"

Stiles narrows his eyes, "Why does it suddenly feel like I'm giving ammunition to the devil?"

Peter merely kisses him, where his dimple had been, and wonders, "What had you smiling so wide, baby?"

Stiles clears his throat, mouth already curling crescent moon again. He shrugs, "This. You. Going on a date with you. Kind of everything? I'm just really happy right now."

Peter's lips go soft, thin, and his eyes go summer rain, and Stiles — is not telling him shit, no he is not. "Good," Peter murmurs, so sincere that Stiles' heart skips a beat.

They hit a red light and Stiles bends his steaming face toward the steering wheel, "Geeze."

"Something the matter?" Peter asks, with a playful tilt that says he knows _exactly_ what's _‘the matter.’_

"Nothing," Stiles says, yanking his soul back down to earth and shaking it ruthlessly back into equilibrium. "Not a thing. I am just _dandy."_

"I'm sure," Peter says, voice dripping with barely contained amusement.

Stiles mutters over-indulgent oaths under his breath.

The light turns green.

* * *

Dusk is gaining on day by the time Stiles pulls into the naked parking lot.

"Donnie's Diner?" Peter says with some surprise.

"Yup."

The clock-face of Peter's wristwatch lies over his pulse; he moves his sleeve to check it, forehead corrugated, "Don't they close early on the weekends?"

"Yup," Stiles says, swinging his set of keys up on his finger and twirling them. "We've got the whole place to ourselves."

He leads Peter into the building through the back door. The kitchen is small and clean, all white walls and brick floors and steel appliances; it runs straight out to the bar and the rest of the restaurant. Stiles has set up their table here, cocooned in his element.

The snowdrops yawn daintily from their powder blue vase, the tablecloth beneath them rustles against some invisible breeze, and the scent of Stiles' cooking hangs dense in the air.

Peter stands still a moment, soaking in the scene. His eyes sparkle, and when he smiles it's overwhelming. Stiles doesn't think it'll ever _not_ be overwhelming.

"Mieczysław," Peter sighs, "you never cease to amaze me."

Stiles ducks his head, scratching his cheek. "Does that mean you like it?"

 _"Yes,_ baby," Peter says, pulling Stiles close to press a lingering kiss behind his ear. He approaches the table slowly, leaning down to smell the flowers before taking his seat.

Stiles bustles around the kitchen, feeling shy and strangely wild as he strains the bright orange, simmering stock, and starts the pasta; it takes some minutes to finish but Peter amuses himself by watching, attentively, or asking questions here and there about what he's doing.

He presents the spaghetti allo scoglio, when it's done, on the finest plates Donnie's has to offer, breathless and skittish and held on the precipice of anticipation.

Peter smiles slightly, knowingly, at him before he takes a bite.

His eyes sink shut in pleasure, chewing made difficult by the chuckle bubbling up his throat. He savours it, swallows, and huffs, "I should have been expecting that."

Stiles grins so widely his cheeks ache, "Good?"

Peter stares at him, lips crooked on a face caught somewhere between rueful astonishment and gentleness. "There aren't words," he says.

Stiles flops down into his chair with an incredible sense of satisfaction, fist-pumping dazedly, "Mission accomplished."

Peter snorts, bidding him try it, too.

Stiles does, gratified with how it turned out, every strand of pasta infused with flavour, vibrant and luscious and silky. He makes some happy noises, then remembers, "Oh, shit, drinks," and gets up to grab the wine (for Peter) and the two parts apple juice, three parts sparkling water (for himself).

Peter thanks him, tender in his way, and asks how he managed to secure their venue for the evening. Stiles explains that he knows the owner, Donnie, and that he's going to work with him over the summer. He wants, someday, to own a place like this, so it'll be nice to get some first-hand experience.

"I had thought," Peter says, "and forgive me if I'm mistaken, but I had thought that you'd planned on going into law enforcement, or something of that nature?"

"Yeah," Stiles smiles, "an FBI Agent or, any kind of investigator, really. That's been the plan ever since I was... seven? I think."

Peter's gaze seems to trace over every line of him, ponderous and tranquil, "May I ask what changed?"

"You guys did," Stiles answers honestly. "Your whole family — I mean, you guys changed my life. I've always been, ever since—. Ever since my mom died, keeping my dad healthy and safe has been my highest priority. In order to do that, I used to think I'd have to make Beacon Hills as harmless as humanly possible for its Sheriff." He laughs, only a little self-deprecating, "Silly, I know."

"No, baby," Peter denies firmly, reaching across the table to fold their hands together. "Not silly at all."

Stiles flexes his fingers, relishes the sweet-shift of palm against palm, "Thanks," he murmurs; recommences: "Anyway, as I grew up that changed. Scott and Melissa got added into the mix with my dad, and in trying to protect them, in trying to protect our town _for_ them... I realized how much I loved it. _Beacon Hills._ I love this place, man, and I love the people who live here, and I'd do pretty much anything in my power to keep bad shit from happening to them. I've always been too curious for my own good, _craved_ having the pulse of the answers at my fingertips; a good mystery solved makes my fucking day. So, you know, might as well put that to use, right?

"The end goal never deviated, even if some of the reasons behind it did. And then..."

Peter's expression is like a liquid, cloudless sky, "You discovered the supernatural."

"And I discovered a new way to fulfil my goals," Stiles agrees. "Derek's a Deputy right now, but he and Parrish are both gunning for my old man's spot whenever he retires, and I trust them to keep the peace; my itch to investigate things is _more_ than scratched by our revolving door of creepy-crawlies, and I know that we're protecting Beacon Hills, our whole Pack together. After all that, becoming an FBI Agent started to lose its appeal. Then I started cooking for you guys — little things at first, just snacks and stuff." Stiles shrugs somewhat sheepishly, lips quirking, "You all loved it."

"Of course we did," Peter tells him. "Your cooking's exquisite."

"See," Stiles says, laughing as he waggles his fork in Peter's direction, "that's part of it. You all started complimenting me and begging me to cook more until making breakfast for your whole family became a regular thing and... I discovered this _passion_ for it that I never knew I had."

"You like feeding people," Peter says, brimming with affection.

"Very much," Stiles agrees, hooking their ankles together under the table because he can.

Peter blinks, realization dawning, "Did you — call your cakes _‘little things’?"_

"Yeah," Stiles says.

"Heartling," Peter says, sounding amused despite himself, "cakes are not _little things."_

"For _werewolves_ they are," Stiles returns, firmly.

Peter chuckles, conceding easily, "Alright; I suppose that's fair."

"Damn right it is. Y'all can eat twenty cakes in an hour, no problem, spend the rest of the day lounging around doing nothing, and tomorrow you'll be literally starving to death the instant you wake up. Your metabolisms are _wild."_

"We should count ourselves lucky to have you, then," Peter says, eating the last bite of his food, swallowing the last sip of his wine, and moving to press a kiss against Stiles' mouth.

Stiles hums, parting his lips so it can deepen, so the pleasure can sharpen. Peter brushes his spit-slick bottom lip with a thumb when they part, eyes enticingly riveted.

"My sweet boy," Peter murmurs, half absently, like a well-worn thought that slipped past his defences, soft as a whisper, while he wasn't looking.

Stiles darts forward to kiss him again, four or five quick little pecks in rapid succession, before leaning back and returning them to their conversation, heart fluttering hot in his chest, "Enough about me — what was that annoying case you were telling me about yesterday? The insurance one?"

"Ah," Peter says, with a certain menacing gleam in his eyes, "Moorcraft Insurance — they were trying to deny my client's claim in bad faith."

Stiles feels a smirk coming on, "I'm guessing that did not go well for them."

"No," Peter agrees, darkly joyed. "No, it did not."

Stiles finishes his meal as Peter regales him with how he was able to catch a seemingly simple mistake on the part of the insurance agent, thereby winning the case and earning himself about $500k in attorney's fees — money that Moorcraft Insurance had to pay on top of the entire million-dollar claim. The story is highly entertaining and tied up with a nice little happy-ending bow, which is always nice.

They wash their dishes together, and move the table back out into the restaurant, where it's supposed to be. Peter takes his gifted vase of flowers with an adoring smile and kisses Stiles breathless _(again)_ as thanks.

Stiles drives Peter home. Peter scents him and kisses him and acquires a second date before reluctantly withdrawing from his company. 

Stiles floats back home on a cloud of oddly wistful bliss, walks directly toward the dining room table, occupied by his father, sits down, and says, "I'm going to marry him."

The Sheriff looks up from the notes he'd been studying, roughs his hands over his face, squints, blinks, and then squints again. "You're going to what with who-now?"

"I'm going to marry him," Stiles says, even surer of it than he was a second ago. Plans begin to spin, as they always do, in his mind.

"I think I need a little more clarification than that, son."

"I went on a date," Stiles tells him.

The Sheriff's expression is wry, "I hadn't noticed."

"With a guy."

"Okay." No hesitation or anything, just straightforward acceptance. His dad is awesome.

"A maybe-sorta older guy. Much older."

"... How much older?"

"Eh," Stiles see-saws a hand, "twenty-one years older? Ish?"

The Sheriff sighs very deeply.

"I love him," Stiles continues before he can say anything, more excited than defensive. "And, you don't have to believe me, but I am going to spend the rest of my life with that man."

"I believe you," the Sheriff says, rueful. "This man wouldn't happen to be Peter Hale by any chance, would it?"

Stiles, alarmed, because Laura knew, too, demands: "Was I _that_ obvious?" _He_ hadn't even known until a week and a half ago. Well, he'd kind of known, but not like he knows now, not with the width and breadth and _weight_ of the whole sea.

The Sheriff smirks, highly entertained, "Only to the people who know you."

Which is, essentially, everyone he cares about. Stiles' eye twitches. His father laughs at him, but quickly sobers.

"You're going to be eighteen in a couple of months, and I know how stubborn you can be — more than that, I've seen how much the two of you care for each other. So. I'm not going to interfere, but I would like to have a talk with him."

Stiles fidgets under his father's stern gaze. Clears his throat. "Okay, I'll tell him."

"Good," the Sheriff says approvingly. "Now, let's talk about the bees and the bees."

"Oh my _God,"_ Stiles breathes, with the intense anguish anyone might have when forced to discuss sex with their parent.

"You better go get your computer; you probably know more about this stuff than I do," his dad muses, "I have a feeling there's a lot of googling to be done."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"Nope. Trust me, I don't like it any more than you do, kiddo, but we gotta keep you safe. Also, remember that communication is healthy—" 

"I know." 

"If he does anything you don't like, tell him, if you're upset, tell him, never let anything fester—" 

"I know."

"And if he ever doesn't listen to you, you tell _me,"_ the Sheriff finishes solemnly.

Stiles grins. "I know. I love you, too, Dad."

"Despite all the grey hairs you're givin' me," his dad mutters lightly, waving at him to go fetch his laptop.

* * *

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙿𝙴𝚃𝙴𝚁:  
Did you get home safe?

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙴𝚂:  
yes 🥰  
i have the best dad

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙿𝙴𝚃𝙴𝚁:  
Of that, I have no doubt.

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙴𝚂:  
he wants to talk to u tomorrow  
bring beer or something  
give an offering to the gods

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙿𝙴𝚃𝙴𝚁:  
... I'll be sure to do that.  
What time?

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙴𝚂:  
noon-ish? if thats ok

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙿𝙴𝚃𝙴𝚁:  
It's quite alright.  
I'll see you tomorrow, then, heartling.

𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙴𝚂:  
🍀✌

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laura, with sadhbh on her hip, peeking out the window: *covers sadhbh's eyes* ohmigodohmigodohmigod  
> deaton: *wtf face*  
> laura: *tries to explain in fangirl that her favourite ship is making out _before their first date has even **started** *_  
> deaton:... yes, dear. whatever you say, dear.


	5. brother, we've both got places to be that ain't right here

Stiles and Scott used to live in each other's pockets. You could rarely find one without the other, and if you ever _did,_ at a word they'd be able to tell you where their other half was.

They weren't just best friends. They were brothers.

Stiles picks Scott out of the cafeteria with some difficulty — he's become so used to eating lunch with the triplets in the wooded skirts of the lacrosse field that the geography of tables and food and high school social politics is all but lost on him. Scott's sitting next to his girlfriend, Kira, surrounded by strangers, sunny-faced and chatting amiably.

"Scotty-boy," Stiles says.

Scott's eyes light up. "Oh, hey, Stiles!" he exclaims, jubilant. Giving over to civilities, he begins handing out gentle-intentioned introductions.

Stiles smiles despite himself, "Nice to meet you all," he says, "D'you think I could borrow this guy for a sec?"

They all seem vaguely curious about the why, but no one asks. He receives a round of strangely exuberant assent and Scott says his temporary goodbyes as he follows Stiles out and through the glossy linoleum halls into an empty classroom.

"So, remember those college plans we had?" Stiles commences, lifting himself up onto a desk and crossing his legs.

Scott, hands in pockets, expression gaining some concern, "Yeah?"

In middleschool, they had decided that they would find colleges they liked in the same area and go in together on an apartment. Where Stiles had been dead set on becoming an FBI Agent, Scott had been dead set on leaving Beacon Hills in their dust.

Scott is, was, and always has been his brother, but even Stiles can admit that they aren't best friends anymore.

They had been like fish swimming in the same currents, until a branch, wind-beaten and rotting or chewed to nothing at the base by some wild animal, fell upon their river and split it into two different channels.

Stiles is not the same person who had been willing to leave his father and his town, even transitorily, for his brother's sake. And Scott — Scott's changed, too: he has a brand new social circle, he has his sweeping, Disney songbird love, he has a life that Stiles is only a very small piece of.

Stiles becoming invested in the supernatural where Scott had so adamantly, almost desperately turned away, hadn't been the genesis of this separation. They'd begun building the foundations of the wall between them long before that rogue Alpha had come along to fuck up their dynamic.

In the process of growing up, they'd grown apart. It's nothing new or terrible or dramatic.

Just the ABC's, and all.

Feeling melancholy and tender-hearted, Stiles explains that he's changed his mind. He can't leave Beacon Hills. He doesn't want to be an FBI Agent anymore. Donnie, who owns that Diner down on 7th and Avery, he wants to take Stiles on over the summer, like an apprenticeship type deal. If it goes well, Stiles hopes to go to culinary school and work his way up, own his own restaurant someday.

"Wow," Scott says, voicebox imitating a clogged pipe. "That all sounds, um — great, really. When did you...?"

"Decide?" Stiles suggests. Scott bobbles a little nod, looking miserable. Stiles quirks his lips, sympathetic. "I started pestering Donnie about it five months ago."

Scott blows out a long breath, eyes growing wet, shoulders shifting restlessly in their sockets. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows as his mouth dons a smile drenched in bittersweet kindness, "Where were you to tell, man?"

It's almost the end of their senior year; they're going to be graduating soon, and this is the first they've spoken to each other in months.

Scott immediately withers into apologies and explanations, but Stiles doesn't need them. He already understands. He lets Scott talk anyway, about how fucked his head had been after the whole Turning and un-Turning ordeal (being brutally assaulted and then shoved into body-horror mania literally two days later will do that to you), about going to therapy, then group therapy, then meeting Kira and falling in love and...

"I'm not mad, you know," Stiles says soothingly when Scott putters out, flicking his fingers at Scott's knee half-playfully. "I mean, I wasn't exactly seeking you out, either. We're both... we're figuring out who we are. And, as it turns out, when I'm not badgering you into my latest adventure and you're not seeking me out for something to do," Stiles trails off with a shrug. "It's okay," he says, "that we don't need each other as much as we used to."

They _had_ needed each other at first. It had been the basis of their whole relationship: Stiles' rage-besotted grief over losing his mother, Scott's bitter resignation over being abandoned by his father, and their mutual boredom.

Scott sniffles. "Does this mean we're breaking up?"

Stiles laughs, hopping off of the desk he'd claimed. "We're brothers. I don't think breaking up is an option. My dad and I will still be here when you come home during the holidays; you have my phone number; we can skype. We're just — not going to college together anymore."

Scott warbles a soft whimper and launches himself forward, arms wide open and firm when they wrap around him. Scott has always given the best hugs. "I love you, bro."

"I love you, too," Stiles sighs, patting Scott's broad back and imaging wings extending from his shoulder blades, trembling restless, so prepared to fly. The sun is doing waltzes behind the windows, her cloudy skirts billowing all around her in the heavens.

The whole world seems on the tip of his tongue. It tastes like overripe strawberries and lemon rinds.

Stiles smiles. Breathes. And lets go.

* * *

Peter picks him up from school.

"Heartling," he greets as Stiles climbs into the passenger seat. (Gloss dark vermilion exterior, raven feather silk interior, an engine that ignites with a low smooth roar; _God,_ this car is sexy.)

Stiles hums a small, drowsy-delighted reply

"Are you alright?" Peter asks after a breath, concern flooding his features, "You smell..."

"I'm good," Stiles says, head falling back onto the headrest and rolling toward Peter. He smiles, scrunching up his nose, "Really good. Just — had a long day."

Peter reaches over, big, gentle hand, and tucks a wayward curl behind Stiles' ear. Stiles shifts so that Peter's hand is caught, for a moment, between Stiles' cheek and the buttery leather. His eyes flutter closed.

Strong, wide palm; sturdy fingers; the hand of a builder, or a soldier. They should be worn through with callouses, Stiles thinks, it's strange that they aren't. But then he remembers: werewolves.

Pain hides, scars disappear, and, yes, you heal, but there's a loss there, too.

 _I love you._ It's on the tip of his tongue, it is in the rhythm his heart beats, it is in the floaty billow of his lungs.

If the world were drained of all its' seas, and Stiles' love turned into water to replace the loss, every shore would drown, every river would overflow, all the earth would swell with rain and quicken. Nothing would ever know what it was to be dry again.

Peter's thumb smooths over the crest of his cheekbone. Back and forth. Back and forth. Patient sweeps of movement.

Stiles lifts open his slumberous lids. Peter is gazing at him with one of the softest expressions Stiles has ever seen him wear, open and vulnerable. 

His eyes look like the skies in Stiles' dreams, without the barrier of the ice.

Raising his head. Peter's hand lingers a few sweet seconds longer. Stiles' cheek tingles with the loss of warmth as soon as it's gone. Pressing forward until their lips meet, open; rich intensity, slow, heavy, _wet._

He feels almost feverish, set aflame, the moth to Peter's inferno. His papery wings catch, then his sugar-spun fuzz, his wiry legs, his belly; he doesn't wither or char, he becomes one with the element instead. Liquid gold that flickers and curls, a cinder insect composed of fire.

Panting, Stiles sits back.

Peter's chest is heaving, too. And — oh, lord, Stiles had almost forgotten — his face is red _everywhere._ It's absurd and adorable and Stiles begins grinning like a dope, hopelessly, helplessly.

"How'd your meeting with my dad go?" Stiles asks, tapping two knuckles lightly beneath Peter's chin. (His mother used to do this to him, _Chin up, champ._ The memory is a vague, faded thing that he doesn't often look at. He isn't thinking of her, or it, when he does this. His body simply moves.) "He give you the shovel talk?"

"I think he meant to," Peter says, his car pulling out of the parking lot with a thunderous purr. Stiles wonders how many of his peers saw that elicit exchange, he wonders if any of them cared. "But I distracted him."

"Oh?"

"I followed your advice and brought a few sacrifices. We bonded over a ludicrously expensive bottle of rum, and baseball. Which reminds me: your father suggested you spend the night at ours."

Stiles stares. Peter's complexion is still vividly flushed, but otherwise he's all faintly amused sincerity. "Wow... but, wait, don't you _hate_ sports? With a passion?"

"Yes," Peter says frankly, "but you and your father own a special love for baseball in particular, so I decided to take an interest."

Stiles did not think he could love this man any more.

He was wrong.

Peter smiles that god-fucking hallowed smile of his. "You smell much better, now."

"Mmm, I wonder whose fault _that_ could be?" Stiles intones laughingly, melting into his seat and closing his eyes again with a bit more finality. He hadn't been lying when he'd said it had been a long day. "That story," Stiles murmurs, "the one about the day and the night. Tell it to me?"

Unhesitatingly, Peter does:

_"Once upon a time, when the world was little more than primordial slush, there lived a pair of twins. One so gold and bright they blinded everyone who came near, and the other so dark and void that they frightened everybody they saw._

_"Whatever you may think, these two selfsame creatures weren't lonely, for the Dark kept the Light company, and wherever the Dark went the Light went also. The siblings were fearless, and bound fiercely to one another despite their antithetical aspects._

_"But their adventures wreaked havoc on the world: the dread-shadows of Darkness clashed so bizarrely with the white-shimmering radiance of Light. The Gods wanted to separate them, as they had separated everything else: the liquid sky lifted from the heavy earth, the restless waters untangled from the fragile air, the wrestling winds thrust from the tumbling clouds. They knew that a new age was coming, and that its' children would not be able to survive the raw elements quarrelling or mixing in dangerous ways as they had done until then._

_"Agaeheth, the girl who wears a mountain as a halo, suggested they send Love to intercede. ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘if the Light loves what the Dark does not, the Light will go to it and leave Darkness behind. Or if, instead, the Darkness loves, Light will be left, and our problems will be solved.’ So they began discussing whose heart Love should pierce with her bold arrow, and who she should make the Darkness or the Light devote their affections to._

_"Love was insulted._ Who are they to command me in such a way? _she thought,_ Do they think my bow so easy to aim? My quiver so light upon my shoulders that a shallow whim could draw an arrow from it? They do not understand the burden of my power, the weight of what they intend to ask of me. Am I not the daughter of the Fates? Am I not a Goddess in my own right? I know more than they ever will — about this, at least, I can read the mad ramblings of Destiny behind my eyelids. I will not do as they command when they give me these orders. No, I will do what I must; what Destiny says I will do; what, in some ways, I already have done.

_"The Gods came to a decision: Love would make Light abandon Darkness for Häthemuulr, the lowest of the low seas. Holding their hands over their eyes and squinting so that they would not be blinded, they watched Love point her arrow toward the Light and release it. The glittering arrowhead struck Light's chest, sunk past their breastbone, and plunged deep inside their heart. Love guided her next arrow up, letting it fly before anybody could stop her, so that the God fated to love Light and be loved in return was Ruparrah, the Sky. And Love loosed one more: a long-shafted missile made of onyx bone and pitch-black glass and crow feathers._

_"The Gods were bewildered and outraged. What had Love done? What would become of the twins now? Had she doomed all of their work with her arrogance?_

_"Agaeheth, however, gasped, ‘Oh! Oh, I understand, now!’ Thus exclaiming, she bent her head, and therefore her mountain, down to the enraptured twins, whose feet were frantic to race toward their new love. ‘Climb,’ Agaeheth told them. ‘When you reach the top, leap into Ruparrah's arms. But I can only carry one of you at a time, and Ruparrah cannot catch you both at once, or she will lose her place in the heavens and fall.’_

_"So the twins embraced, and kissed each other, and, at last, parted. The Dark climbed Agaeheth, and leapt, and Ruparrah caught them, and the fabric of the sky became thick with black velvet twilight. The earth gave birth to crickets to soothe the frightened grasses and reeds, the Sky's tears of joy scattered pearlescent droplets across the universe that would one day become the Stars, and many more great things came to pass due to their union. But, although the Dark was elated, they lamented in mournful howls the loss of their kin. Each call, when it reached the ground below, developed four legs and dusky fur and a sharp-fanged snout: and so the wolves were born._

_"Light followed Darkness' cries as they climbed Agaeheth, their brilliance dampened by the world's first true night. As they leapt, Darkness reached out for them with Ruparrah, and Dawn was born. Slowly, the Dark retreated, sighing and weeping joyfully, so that Ruparrah and the Light could have their own honeymoon. The wolves collected their parent's milky tears in their pawprints. After the first true day had passed, the siblings visited together once more in their lover's realm, creating Dusk._

_"One of the wolves, Paleadnysa, saw the water in the puddles beginning to solidify as Light handed Ruparrah over to Darkness, and Paleadnysa spoke to it, and learned that it was the Moon. The Moon wanted to live in the Sky with its brothers and sisters, the stars, so Paleadnysa hefted it up onto their shoulders and began to carry it up Agaeheth's mountain. (There are other stories, about how Paleadnysa became the God of the wolves, about how they will continue to bear the moon upon their shoulders forever, about how the first werewolves came to be, but those stories are for another time.)_

_"The twins, Light and Dark, never truly parted as the Gods had desired. Instead, because of divine Love, they married the Sky, and they became Day and Night._

_"To this day, you can never see one without the other, forever intertwined, their lover watching over them, and us all, with open arms."_

(Here is something that Stiles will never know: Peter and the Sheriff convened at the Sheriff's station and then at the Stilinski household. Their interview lasted for over four hours. In that time, only the last thirty-five minutes were spent on expensive rum and baseball.

And here is something else: when Peter pulls into the Hales' driveway, Stiles is sleeping so quietly and peacefully that Peter cannot bear to wake him up. He parks, opens the passenger door, unbuckles Stiles' seat-belt, and, gently cradling him in his arms, carries him across the threshold like a bride.

He passes Laura, who smacks at Alan's arm with unbridled glee and shushes Sadhbh all in one motion as they go by, up the stairs and through the house, into Peter's apartments.

Peter lays Stiles in his bed and picks up his journal and his favoured mountain ash pen. He sits beside the person who has become his breath, his limbs, his lifeblood, and he writes.

If anyone were to skim through the past three journals Peter has written, they would think, perhaps, that they had happened upon a collection of love letters.

And perhaps they'd be right.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note :** Just in case: in the fairy tale, when the twins kiss it's chaste and while they both marry Ruparrah, etc etc, their relationship is firmly very strong sibling love. I was thinking innocently of it when I wrote it, but reading it back I realize it could, possibly, be misconstrued, and I don't want it to be, lol, so, hi, hello, notely 🌺
> 
> There are various vignettes and epilogues to come, but I really wanted to get at least this much out.
> 
> Love all, soulhugs, take care of yourselves, xoxoxo!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it!! xoxoxo, soulhugs soulhugs soulhugs


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